


You Had A Way So Familiar

by Sakura_no_Miko



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Self-indulgent fluff, aka way too much talking during sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-12 20:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakura_no_Miko/pseuds/Sakura_no_Miko
Summary: There are only a few inches to cross, but he feels like every motion is loud and clumsy. Great. Idiot. Can't even leave Derek alone to sleep. Why? Just because he feels like crap. For stupid reasons. Because he can't deal with one tiny little bad day and some grumpiness.





	You Had A Way So Familiar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyDrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/gifts).



> Well, I wrote this two years ago, so my posting time is getting slightly better. Progress, y'all.  
> Admittedly everything I know about Teen Wolf comes from LadyDrace's tumblr, so this is mostly fluff and not really plotty.

For someone who prides himself on his extensive pop culture knowledge — because, man, it is amazing just how little common sense some of his friends have — it's also a bit sad to realize just how much of it is flat-out wrong.

Oh, there's obvious stuff. The way everyone turns into a hero when a gun shows up, instead of freezing in terror. How many crimes are conveniently unraveled in an hour. Pretty much everything to do with romance.

Sex though. Sex is probably the worse. Oh, yeah, every girl wants to get true love's kiss, get married, ride off into the sunset. Let's just ignore how awkward the upcoming wedding night of two virgins is about to be. Or wax rhapsodic about how special and perfect it's all going to be, all true love and virgin tightness and blah blah blah.

Bullshit, he’d thought, the first time Derek had pushed into him. It had ached, it had burned, and, cynical as he is, he can still spout off a dozen cliches, about so close and so tight and like they were joined as one, but he doesn’t have to. He doesn't have to say anything.

This — this — is how things are supposed to be.

Well, maybe not how it all started. Ugh. Ugh. Double ugh, curses on everything, fuck his life, and so on and so on. One of those days. And the worst part is, really? It isn't that bad. He knows grief — the deep, aching pit of loss inside you that never goes away. He knows fear — that bit before about not being a hero? Totally from personal experience. He knows pain — the feeling of his blood spilling and his flesh tearing and the utter certainty that he is going to die.

So, yeah, another late night at work? Not so bad. Frustrating. Nerve-wracking. A headache like a two-ton anvil just landed on his head. Just a constant buzzing under his skin, making everything that much sharper, that much more annoying. Every tiny stupid thing, until he’s sure he’s going to maul the face off the next person who so much as says hello to him.

Being home helps, a little. He tosses back a glass of juice and some energy bar thing Derek keeps around the house. Scrubs at his face and his hands until he stops feeling quite so hot and tight and achy. His clothes are neatly dropped in the hamper — not thrown into the wall — so that's a success.

Derek is probably asleep. Yeah, there he is, giant lump under the sheets. How he manages in the mornings is the eternal mystery of life. And Stiles, for all his current frustrations, knows he has to be back again early tomorrow, so. Sleep. Best thing to do would be to sleep. Reboot. Forget this whole stupid day even happened.

Problem is, he's still buzzing, still hurting, and forcing himself to sleep is not on his list of awesome abilities. And Derek's sleeping, so he should try and stay still and not wake him up. That's polite. No point in both of them being sleep deprived. Come on. Just stay still. Sleep. Sleep. Go to sleep.

That ends up making him want to move more. Everything is so still, so quiet — except him. He's lying on his left side, and now he wants to be on his right. Or maybe on his back. Something. The pillow is too hot now. His toes are too cold, but he hates wearing socks in bed. Is he breathing too loudly? The bed keeps creaking.

Some nights he cuddles with Derek. Depends on how they're feeling. Derek never gets sick, sure, but when Stiles does, it's hack-and-cough all night, so badly he shakes. Sometimes they wake each other up with nightmares. Some nights he wants to be alone. Their bed is practically big enough to fit the whole pack, so finding some personal space isn't hard.

Maybe he can move over and not wake Derek up? No. Bad enough he keeps moving. Is he really going to be able to keep still once he gets close? Nope. Not even a little bit.

There are only a few inches to cross, but he feels like every motion is loud and clumsy. Great. Idiot. Can't even leave Derek alone to sleep. Why? Just because he feels like crap. For stupid reasons. Because he can't deal with one tiny little bad day and some grumpiness.

Derek's facing the opposite wall. His back is so big. Crazy arms-and-chest-and-shoulders set-up. Just — big. The sheet is slung loosely over his shoulders, and Stiles can see the back of his neck, and that's where he brushes his lips. It's small, but it feels good. Right. No matter how bad he feels, he has this, doesn't he? Derek is here. Yeah, really, his life isn't that bad, but everything hurts, so he can be a little selfish, right?

He brushes his hand against Derek's shoulder, trying to keep the touch light, and licks his lips wet before kissing Derek again.

That's enough. Alright, he admits it: he feels a little bit better now. But, still, sleep. No, seriously, that would be a superpower: fall asleep when you want, for as long as you want. He moves back towards the second set of pillows. He is going to lay down, stop moving, slee — 

A firm touch against his back makes him twitch, shoulder blades arching back. Familiar fingers stretch out against his skin, and — 

That jerk is totally awake. Awake, rolled over, splayed out on his back, an open invitation.

He's back at Derek's side so fast it's like he never left, one leg swung over Derek's thigh, and a hand pulling the sheet down off Derek's shoulders. He knows where the ink on Derek's back begins and ends, even without having the light to see it. He knows which spots of skin mean, let's take it slow tonight, or I want to make you laugh, or I want to sink my teeth into you.

It's been slow, hard-earned knowledge, not unlike magic. Some of it came easy, through careful observation and experimentation. Some of it, he had to decode, because translation wasn't a simple swapping of words, one for another. He couldn't always speak Derek's language just by looking through his own eyes, or relating to his own experiences. Sometimes he had to learn everything all over again. Like how Derek never asked for anything, never hinted at what he might like to do or have done to him, out loud, with words. He touched. He touched a lot — every bit of skin he could get his fingers against, from the top of Stiles' head, along his ears and cheeks and the tip of his tongue. All those weird little habits and places he liked to lick and suck and touch. Stiles had shrugged off each one as that thing Derek likes to do, until, in a moment of boredom, he tried doing the same thing — hands to Derek's hair, his stubbly cheeks — and Derek had, like, frozen. Frozen, and Stiles thought he'd done something wrong, until Derek leaned into the touch.

And there it was, the key to the unraveling the whole thing. Stiles came to slowly realize he was practically shouting. Everything he did to Stiles was something he enjoyed, and exactly what he wanted done to him.

But, like — in his defense, who would even guess that? If someone was kissing you and pinning you down and generally acting like a big possessive he-wolf all the time, how was he supposed to know Derek wanted him to get his skinny ass in gear and roll them over and start biting?

It's not like their first time was bad or anything. It was normal, mostly. Awkward and rough and uncertain in places, full of surprises and second tries and probably not enough talking, in retrospect. Communication was a bit of a bummer when they started. Words didn't always mean the same things to both of them. Actions were — well, assuming either of them actually managed to do anything, there was plenty of nonverbal miscommunication going on too.

Glorious virgin sex. It makes him snort. First time finding out which spots made Derek squirm, and which ones made him kick. Hard. Trying to get used to the unfamiliar sensations of being touched and stretched and filled up. Wondering how something could make him see stars, and Derek would just shrug off the same action with a vague “that tickles?” Trying to keep the smirk off his face when the exact opposite happened.

It wasn't bad. It just...was. Of course he wanted to keep having sex, and he knew it obviously wasn't like porn or romance novels. Bad sex, that existed. Mindblowing sex probably also existed, but what were the odds of that happening, right? Extremes were just that — extremes. Exceptions. Most of the time, he got off, got Derek off, felt satisfied.

Things changed so slowly. He'd touch some random place, and maybe Derek's breath would stutter, just a little, and he might not even notice the first — or even the fifth — time. But eventually he would, and then he'd do it again, intentionally, cause-and-effect. Slowly, he began to build up a sort of mental textbook of Derek things.

Honestly, he had to admit, sometimes he wasn't sure if he was doing things because Derek liked them, or because he liked them. There were certain bits of skin that felt just amazing under his tongue. Ear lobes, for example. Belly buttons. This bit high up on Derek's thigh that was randomly smooth and hairless for some reason. Those spots, he liked to touch because they just felt really good. And if Derek's breath hitched a bit, well, yes, double score. Score on both ends?

And then, this one night, they were lying in bed, and there was nothing urgent to do, and everything — clicked. It was surreal. Like, he went from one place he knew Derek liked straight to the next, kind of kissing and nibbling and god, yes, every time Derek touched him it was like lighting and fire and soft waves rolling over him, yes yes yes.

Somehow, everything worked.

Really, the sex hadn't been bad before. He would have said it was really good, even with the kicking and the awkward bruises and the random laughter.

Just, somehow, it got even better.

So, here, now — still feeling those pinpricks of pain under his skin, the low throbbing headache at his temples, except now Derek is underneath him, hot and heavy and soothing, and he's giving all these wet kisses along Stiles' neck, the ones that mean, roughly translated from Wolf to Human: mine, mine, mine. More specifically, mine, with a bit of stop hurting, my human shouldn't be hurting, and let me take care of that pain for you, and — 

Stiles should bat Derek away, really, with that pain-stealing mojo. Again, not fair that neither of them are sleeping. Super not fair that both of them are going to be in pain. At the same time, he knows Derek won't listen to him, and, god yes, his headache is melting away, and his skin is starting to feel like skin again, and not a mass of flesh trying to slowly choke him.

Communication is important, yes, but these moments where they don't have to talk are, quite frankly, amazing. He kind of blames TV for that not being better known. It's like TV shows are afraid of things being quiet. So everyone has to talk and talk about things they shouldn't have to say.

Not that he has much room to criticize that, given that his brain never stops talking either.

Derek's hands always feel super-hot against him. All of his skin is hot, really, but he's got one hand splayed out along Stiles' shoulder blade, making these soothing little wave motions, and the other one steadily gripping the back of his neck, like Stiles needs any direction on where to put his face for wet, sloppy kisses. This is something Derek likes, really — to stroke every inch of Stiles' skin slowly, reminding him that he's there.

It's kind of funny, really, how badly they've misunderstood each other over the years. Part of the problem, Stiles maintains, is that Derek is utterly, completely unaware of the fact that does not communicate well with humans. He thinks he does. After all, he grew up with human family, and they always got along well. So obviously he understands humans. And humans understand him. Instead he's invented this weird half-wolf, half-kinda-human creole that probably doesn't make sense to anyone but him.

For Derek, there's no such word as alone. Grumpy, standoffish, don't-touch-me-ever Derek, believed in pack above everything else. With a wolf like him, it was never about his pain, or his strength, or even his happiness. It was the pack. When you hurt, the pack was there to heal and protect you. When the pack was united, nothing could hurt them. When you found the person you loved, you brought them into the pack, and everyone loved them and absorbed them right on in. To be alone was — like being sick. Like losing a limb. Unbearable. Incomprehensible.

The whole thing was — Stiles didn't want to say weird. But humans didn't — they just didn't have a thing like that, Stiles thought. Maybe a family? Blood is thicker than water, right? Or a gang. Humans didn't become us and we, not the way Derek made it sound. Like everything was shared, good and bad and painful and wonderful. Like no one was ever apart.

To Stiles, alone and strength were the same word. Being strong meant knowing when to be quiet and take care of yourself. Being strong meant knowing when someone else was hurting so badly they couldn't help you, even if they wanted to. Being strong meant knowing when other people were more important than you were. To be small, unnoticeable, and not bother anyone — to take care of other people without needing to burden them yourself — that was strength. It's not like he didn't understand that he had limits. Humans had needs. Look at him tonight — burnt out, angry, exhausted. He needed to heal, yes, but, this, deciding between taking care of himself and bothering Derek to take care of him wasn't a choice he wanted to make.

Even now, some part of him still says, you shouldn't need this. You're stronger than that. It's just part of what makes Stiles human. Part of him always wants to run away. He just isn't made the way Derek is.

He's starting to wonder — no, he's thinks about this, time and time again. If him and Derek can ever really make things work, when they're different on such a fundamental level. When Derek sees pain and jumps straight into the fire to get people out. When he wants nothing more than to sneak off like a wounded animal and suffer alone until he can put a smile on again. Honestly, deep down, Derek frightens him, because Derek will always come after him, and not even begging him to stop, putting on the biggest show of leave me alone, I don't want you here, please, please don't risk yourself over me, will ever stop him. 

Crap, he could still talk himself into a self-loathing spiral if he wanted to. Even with Derek right there. Maybe that was it. Not just that he was hurting tonight, but he — in some way, it was easier to be in pain. Harder to recover. Harder to let himself just let Derek help him.

Derek broke off their kisses, and wow, yes. His mouth was filthy wet. He'd probably done blowjobs that were less messy than the way they'd been kissing. He took a moment to breathe deep, catch up for all the air he'd been missing since he got into bed. Derek's hand caught the side of his face, all warm against his cheek, and he offered two of his fingers to Stiles' bottom lip.

It's honestly kind of embarrassing how eager he is to suck Derek's fingers. Had you asked him, even in the glory days of obsessively watching porn for, seriously, research, he would not have named finger sucking as a possible kink of his. Not until he actually got Derek's fingers in his mouth, and promptly almost choked himself because, wow, the way the pads of Derek's fingers felt against his tongue was insanely hot. Then formulated about a dozen different ways to get them in his mouth the next time they had sex, and the time after that.

(He'd managed a slick little move that involved his tongue, licking down the entire length of Derek's arm, and slowly dragging his tongue down Derek's wrist and the long, long lifeline along his palm and then stealthily swallowing his fingers, like he hadn't planned that from the start. It totally worked.)

Strange little details you picked up, having sex for a while. Derek liked having his fingers sucked, Stiles liked to suck on them, and Derek's knuckles, and the lines along his palms, and the little webbing between his fingers. He liked it when Derek held his jaw and set the pace. He liked it when Derek leaned back and let him lick and suck to his heart's content. Those stupid fingers led to so many blowjobs. Among other things.

Mmm. He could probably be content just to suck Derek's fingers until he fell asleep. It was oddly soothing.

Shame Derek didn't agree. He tugged his fingers out — and wasn't that a filthy sound to file away for later, the wet pop ensuring when Stiles tried embarrassingly hard not to give up his favorite past time. Yeah, gross. Gross and yet really stupidly hot. There was a bit of drool leaking off the side of his mouth, too.

Derek's hand tightened against his neck, and he found himself with a mouthful of Derek's shoulder. Then Derek is kneading his ass, and he knows where this is going, yes. Sex. Definitely sex. Sex and a questionable amount of coffee in the morning to even start to keep his eyes open. Hopefully they won't do that puffy raccoon thing, because he hates it.

He's hard — well, of course he's hard, duh, but it's crept up on him somehow, too preoccupied with thinking to even notice how that tight, raw pain inside him is easing off, replaced with a much more pleasant tension. He wants to be touched, needs to be touched, and usually that's Derek's thing. Usually it makes him squirm, being the center of so much attention, because he can't focus, not when his brain is already going off on a dozen tangents and Derek's hands are touching a dozen places and, wow, that's already like a hundred and fifty different combinations of things to keep track of, right? Even for his brain, that's a lot.

But right now, it's clearing, calming, like tunnel vision. Or horse blinders.

When Derek pushes two fingers inside him, he moans in that so-loud-it-sounds-fake way, because, damn, he hadn't known how badly he wanted that until Derek did it, and it's a surprise that Derek doesn't ask permission first, didn't warn him, just — did it. Communication was important, right, and they were working on it. Constantly. Awkward and forced and embarrassing as all hell at times, sure, but it was something they needed.

But — but. One moment, he's himself, and the next, he's full and achy and connected and babbling. It's familiar. It's knowing. It's just that Derek knows, without having to ask, exactly what he wants, and gives it. So Stiles moans, loud, quickly, very much in approval, because they haven't really done anything like this before, but he is fully in favor of this turn of events. And maybe a little stunned, and definitely a lot turned on.

Oh, yes. So much yes. There's so much to feel and so much to think about, and sometimes Stiles hates it, seeing everything, like some tangled up spiderweb branching off in every direction. He shuts his eyes, tries to focus on Derek's hands. He feels good, stretched out like this. It's not quite the ache of being fucked, being completely stretched and filled. It feels, just, good. Familiar. His body opens up now, because he knows the way Derek's fingers feel inside him, just how much they'll open him up and how deep they can go. It was thrilling and terrifying, the first time they did this, trying to get used to having something inside him. Somethings, rather, given that Derek was way too good at scissoring and wriggling and thrusting his fingers around.

Man, even the embarrassment has dulled down. Sure, he's not gonna go around sharing all the filthy, wonderful details with the pack — well, the details they haven't figure out already — but he's not ashamed. He's not confused. He wants Derek's fingers in his ass. There. He wants Derek's fingers to pry him open, and push inside as far as they'll go, because it feels pretty damn good. He pushes his knees firmly into the mattress, and it's be a bit of a stretch to get his hips over Derek's, even with how eager he is to get Derek closer, deeper. His chest and his stomach and his dick are pressed against Derek's, so, yeah, Derek is feeling every time he rolls forward or pushes back, so he knows, he has to know, it's all good. So good.

Honestly, Stiles loves sex. Even awkward and clumsy and anxiety-inducing, he loves it. Sure, jerking off was good. Familiar. Fast. He could get himself off in record time, and he always knew the exact, perfect thing he needed. It had been — well, really fucking weird the first time Derek touched him, because, like, they were both guys. It should have been easier, right? He knew what guys liked, he definitely knew what he liked, so, yeah. Should have been easy, in theory.

And yet — when Derek touched him, it always felt so bizarrely different. The pressure of his hands, sometimes too soft, too shy and hesitant, and other times way too harsh. (He'd been joking about the 'poor fragile human' thing until it really wasn't a joke and freaking ow, Derek.) There'd been moments he was convinced there was something going horribly wrong, because he was limp and frustrated and this wasn't how things were supposed to go when you were finally having sex with the guy you'd wanted to have sex with forever.

Derek nips at his neck, and it startles him back into focus. Was it possible to be too relaxed during sex, Stiles thought idly. He's been rocking his hips back against Derek's fingers and his cock is still hard against Derek's stomach, and the pleasure is a low, constant hum, curling out from his cock to his toes and the tips of his fingers. Derek is breathing, low and hard, and looking at Stiles.

It was kind of embarrassing how long it had taken Stiles to really appreciate what sex was about. Getting off, yeah, and getting your partner off. But getting off together was a whole different beast. The sheer thrill of seeing someone else come undone under your fingers, knowing you were causing those moans and those smiles and those harsh gasps of breath. The surprise of some tiny touch making Derek light up. It was one thing, knowing how to make yourself get off, because who knew you better than you, right? Until finally someone else knew you that well too.

Like making out. First thing you learned, right? Kissing and flailing because you didn't know where you could touch or if you could touch. Teenagers made out because they didn't really know how to do anything else. Lips were the safest option, and maybe, just maybe, you could sneak a hand over the clothes, or under the clothes. Once you touched bare skin, suddenly making out seemed like the boring bit. You had boobs and butts and all those alluring-yet-scary bits between the legs, so, lips? Old territory.

Lucky for Stiles, Derek was long past that phase when they got together, and fully into a mature, 'making out and groping is the best combination in the world, obviously,' mentality. Because it definitely was. Kissing while touching all those wonderful boobs and butts. Kissing while you were so close together it was amazing you even could move without getting tied up in knots. Kissing just for the sake of remembering how someone else's mouth felt against your own. Boring, god, no, never boring, so far from boring it was incomprehensible to think he ever thought such a stupid thing.

Clothes, too. You'd get so obsessed with getting the clothes off, sometimes you forgot how interesting they could be. Like the first time you saw hard nipples poking through a thin undershirt, or tried to figure out just how much space there was in an unzipped pair of jeans to squeeze a hard dick.

And, okay, yes, he had to admit it: there was one tiny little thing that made, ahem, glorious virgin sex actually totally-not-sarcastically glorious, and that was the first moment you got to see someone take their clothes off for you, that one moment where you thought, oh, god, I can see everything and oh, holy shit, I can touch everything — can I touch everything? — oh god, yes, touch everything. Stiles could envision just about every inch of Derek's body, could feel it if he thought hard enough, and yet sometimes it still took his breath away, just seeing.

Just — 

This. All this. This, this, this. He's splayed out on top of Derek's body, skin touching skin every which way, opened and filled and fucked, and it's too much, too much — 

“Please.” It's the first word he's said tonight. Is it? He's been making noise. Talking in his head endlessly. But this is the first word, he thinks, he's said out loud, loud and clear. “Please, please, please,” over and over, like he can't remember any other words.

And when he looks up, Derek is looking right at him, open-mouthed and panting, the stupidest smile on his face, like he's the one wrecked and about five seconds from coming. For a moment, Stiles is thankfully clearheaded, and he shifts his hips, grinding his dick against Derek's until he feels Derek take in a sharp breath, and dig his fingers into Stiles' back.

It's hard — ha — when he's this close, but Derek's done this to him before, grabbed him and fucked him until he was an incoherent mess, left him on the edge of passing out without even mentioning that, hey, he's still hard and unsatisfied. Well, maybe not unsatisfied, but Derek has this thing where he gets so wrapped up in what everyone else is doing he forgets to take care of himself, and Stiles swore up and down he wasn't going to let Derek do it again, and, well.

He might have slipped up once or twice since then, but at least he could soothe his pride with the knowledge that now, he knows exactly how to get under Derek's skin, no matter how far gone he is.

He should be trying to catch his breath, but Derek's still got that moony-eyed thing going on, and there's only one way to deal with that. He kisses the edge of Derek's shoulder, slowly moving up towards his neck, and bites down a bit. Derek goes so tight under him, hard as a rock, but they're still moving, less of a rhythm and more incoherent scrabbling for any friction. So Stiles bites again, closer his throat, and again, and lets his tongue out to lick at the skin he broke. Mine, he says, hopes he's saying, in that strange Derek language he's still not quite sure of. Like he could even hope to tell Derek half the nonsense that's been running through his head.

He can't think of much beyond that, because Derek is finally starting to squirm beneath him, with him, and it's really hard not think, victory. Because Derek has been nothing but stupidly comforting, and caring, and even now he can't just let that go, he can't just accept it. If he doesn't do something for Derek, too, he can't forgive himself.

Lucky he's still smaller than Derek is, because he doesn't have to worry about dropping himself down, bracing his weight against Derek, so he can get a hand free to grab their dicks and squeeze. Really, all he's managing is to get his hand crushed between them along with their dicks, but he can get a good rub along the wet head of Derek's dick, and his own, until it's too much, and need more, need more, need — 

Derek always makes this noise when he comes, and, well, Stiles isn't all that quiet either.

They still for a moment, and Derek finally pulls his fingers back out. It stings a bit. Probably should have spared a moment to grab the lube in retrospect, but it wasn't like they were really being rough. He doubts he'll even feel it in the morning. He feels it now. That's more than enough.

His hand has way too much come drying on it to be comfortable, and he desperately needs to stretch out his fingers, because all those weird angles feel fucking perfect when you're trying to come, and absolutely painful after the fact. He needs that hand to type in the morning.

Yup, gross. Feeling gross. Afterglow gross, which is much weirder than normal gross, because half of you is thinking, yes, let's just sit here forever, and half of you is recoiling towards the shower.

So, he goes to the bathroom, quickly — because there is still that little matter of sleeping and waking up in the morning and he'd really like to keep this pleasant, post-coital exhaustion thing going. Washcloth, water, back to Derek, repeat, all wonderfully on auto-pilot.

It's easy to settle back down. There's a spot against Derek's chest that he knows is always open for him to lie against. Derek settles his arm along Stiles' hip, and kisses him on the head. Not a mark left on his neck, Stiles notes, but the lack of physical marks doesn't bother him much anymore. He doesn't have to say — or bite — the words out anymore. Goes without saying, really. You're mine, I'm yours, all tangled up into a mess of we're each other's.

It's quiet, except for the usual distractions: the faint drone of the fridge and the pipes creaking and animals outside their windows. Derek's skin is warm, and Stiles can't help but rub his face against it, once, twice. It's silly, but comforting. He might have a slight thing for Derek's hair against his skin. He feels drained out, boneless, after spending the entire night trying so hard to keep himself from collapsing, just like this.

This should frighten him, really, knowing everything holding him together, keeping him sane, and moving, breaks under Derek's touch so easily. That his feelings can change so easily. That Derek just has to touch his skin and he throws all his plans — logical, sane plans — out the window.

If he's honest with himself, the problem isn't really that he doesn't understand Derek. The problem is he doesn't listen. Not when there's so much noise in his head, constant, eating him up from the inside when the days get bad. The problem is, he knows what Derek is saying, but he can't believe it.

All this time, Derek what has been saying — with his hands and his tongue and his stupid, hot body — is, we're okay. We're hurting, but it will get better. Let me help you, let me make it stop hurting, because you are mine, mine. What hurts you hurts me. Hurts us.

It really should be terrifying, because somewhere along the way, he's let himself become part of a we, an us, and didn't even realize it.

Derek taps lightly against his hip, questioning.

So Stiles leans himself up a bit, enough to put his hands against Derek's cheeks, and kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, one after the other, his lips. It's a bit of a muddle of a message — don't worry, I'm here, it's fine, I like you, I love you — but Stiles is really a bit muddled himself.

His eyes are starting to hurt. Oh, sleep, finally. He won't want to wake up tomorrow, he thinks, dropping back down to Derek's chest. Derek's seriously fine chest. He should probably say more, do more, do something. All he can manage to do is lay his hand over Derek's, pushing their fingers together. He hopes it sounds something like, us, perfectly fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm somewhat anxious about getting back into fic, and I very nearly drunk posted this, except I didn't have a title. You can't even save a draft without a title.  
> So this is a line from Hedwig and the Angry Inch's "Origin of Love."  
> "You had a way so familiar but I could not recognize  
> "Cause you had blood on your face and I had blood in my eyes  
> But I could swear by your expression that the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine  
> That's the pain that cuts a straight line down through the heart  
> We call it love."


End file.
